Fragmented Pride
by jonsnows
Summary: It's almost impossible to fix up something broken beyond repair. But then again, Sam Evans has always been exceptionally gifted with fixing broken things. —fabrevans.


**disclaimer: **I don't own glee.

**a/n: **a bit of a spur-of-the-moment piece when Quinn retains her status as head cheerleader; unseen moment implied between Sam and Quinn. Part of my tribute to Fabrevans - the sinking ship. I'll try to write a few more pieces before the Super Bowl episode.

* * *

-fragmented pride-  
I fought you for so long  
I should have let you in  
Oh how we regret these things we do

_- Be my E__scape, Relient K_

* * *

She says she's not broken.

Quinn walks down the hallway holding herself with a certain air, her high bombshell ponytail tightened and swinging in rhythm to her cheerleading outfit-clad hips.

_Quinn – _outcast, pregnant teen, mother, _loser_ – is gone.

_Quinn – _head cheerleader, top of the pyramid, leader, and most importantly, _winner _– is finally back in her rightful place.

She won't let anyone forget it.

So maybe that's why when she hears that scream of fury behind her, pinning Quinn to the metal lockers, it hurts so much more than it should. (And after all _she's_ gone through, no one can dare call her weak, can they?)

The pain amplifies through her hands like ice cold needles of rain, falling in sharp angles at her body as she forcefully pushes Santana off of her.

The exotic, dark-haired beauty looks at her with instant distaste, seething with anger.

"You told her about my surgery," she hisses spitefully. "You did this to me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Quinn replies. Her voice remains level and cool, but her clenched fists are trembling like a fragile leaf from the shock as she hides them behind her back. She tries to ignore the gathering crowd of people that linger around them. "You should have known it was going to happen when you got your _boob job_."

Santana's face fills with rage.

It feels like a lightning streak that runs across her face; a hot, blooming flame that burns along the side of her cheek. A spark that tears right through her skin, breaking through those layers of glitter and satin ribbons that she's used to tie herself together.

"You can't hit me," Quinn cries out.

It's not so much angry or furious as resentful, shocked, and full of disbelief. She's back on top. Nobody should be treating her this way – it's been a full year of slushie facials and rumours and gossip about her, and she's tired of being a loser (so yeah, she's got glee, but it just isn't enough for someone like _her) _and all she wants is for everything to go back to the way it was before.

Santana looks at her hatefully.

"Sure I can," she says, enunciating each word clearly—painfully, "unless you've gotten yourself knocked up again, you _slut_."

The word is a resounding harmony of echoes in her mind, lingering whispers in the hallway trailing after her, tainting that name and reputation she worked so hard to build up over time. (And maybe that's the final straw, because she never wanted it to happen it in the first place. No matter how hard she tries to hide it, no matter how deep inside her she wants to bury it – Beth was a mistake that was never supposed to be.)

Layers of glitter and sparkles burst out of seams, showering her in a wounding rage and hurt she'd thought she forgotten. (And when you take away all that glamour – that glitter, glow, shine – all you have left is Quinn Fabray, a puppet hanging on torn-out strings.)

How do you fix something beyond repair? (You just can't, darling. You just patch it up as best as you can.)

And so she slams the other girl against the locker, with as much strength as she can, screaming unintelligible words that they parry back and forth.

She still takes every blow. And she takes it hard.

Time and time again, she ends up on the floor, salty tears that flow off her cheeks like blood drawn from an injury, leaking from her heart.

Because the truth is – Quinn Fabray is broken.

She doesn't really remember the boy over there.

He's watching her thoughtfully from behind his locker, the new transfer.

Sam Evans.

She remembers deep blue eyes, the color of the midday sky (as clear, as bright) meeting a pair of mascara, tear-stained star-like orbs.

See, he's always been exceptionally gifted with fixing broken things.

He's pretty sure that her heart is no exception.

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**a/n: **please don't favourite without reviewing. I'd love to get your thoughts on the piece. Yes, I will have no shame in hunting you down if you do. :)

Dedicated to the reviewers of my previous piece, for their kind words and encouraging support.


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